


First and Last

by GammaRays



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Smut, i suck at summaries, mention of platonic Johnlock, with a lot of sad in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaRays/pseuds/GammaRays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> 'What I mean is that this, this,' he touched Jim's skin again, and this time, his shiver was only minute 'doesn't make you any less. Do you understand me, James Moriarty?'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	First and Last

                They did this quite often. When John was out (in this case, on a date with his girlfriend, and it didn't seem as if he was going to come home for the night), Jim would come over to 221B with his laptop and sit in one of the chairs, the one that faced the kitchen, so that he could steal a glance at the detective every now and again, usually absorbed by his current experiment, while he himself tended to his own matters.  Usually the kettle has just been boiled, as Sherlock learned to expect the criminal whenever there was a possibility of John disappearing for a longer time than when he did when getting milk.

                On particularly busy days, they did nothing else except for that; minding their own business, while being in each other's company. Sometimes they barely even spoke. Neither of them minded. Jim found the familiar clanking of Sherlock's apparatus and the low hiss of his Bunsen burner soothing, and Sherlock didn't mind the furious typing echoing in the living room. Well, if he did, he never mentioned it.

                Today, however, Moriarty was on top of everything; tomorrow's assassination was planned to the last detail, finally giving him some time for the detective. He left his laptop on the chair and went to the kitchen.

                'What are you working now, mmm?', he murmured as he planted a gentle kiss on the detective's neck.

                'Testing the severity of fluorosis on teeth exposed to different concentrations of fluoride over long time. And over there I've got this toxic compound I've been working on since a couple of days, the one I promised to put in your tea some time.'

                'Oh, Sherlock, you really shouldn't have, wasting so much time on little old me. I am touched, though. '

                'I hoped you would be.'

                Jim grinned, always cherishing each of these remarks that they exchanged. He put his arms around the larger man and leaned his chin on his shoulder, watching him silently as he dipped a tooth in a solution in a beaker labelled 'high NaF conc.'.

                'And you? Finished with bringing the world to its knees for tonight?', the detective smirked, never lifting his eyes from his work, and seemingly, not minding the criminal currently draped over his body.

                'Yeah, didn't have that much work today. Just this one client, an owner of some big company that's currently miles deep in debt, needed to fake his death. Easy peasy. But he was so rude, Sherlock. He told my men he didn't want the work 'half-assed', Sherlock. He actually said that, can you believe? As if I ever half-ass things.', he cringed at the memory. 'Maybe I should make it so believable, and make Sebastian kill him for real. He should be happy then, it wouldn't be half-assed. Everyone would believe it's him, because it really would be. Wouldn't that be funny? I'd love to see his face.'

                'Or maybe you should less than 'half-ass' it, then leave him to deal with the consequences?'

                The criminal stood up straight and gasped in mock offence. 'Reputation, Sherlock. Reputation!'

                'Ah yes, of course, you're a man of your word, aren't you.' Jim couldn't help another grin spreading over his face as the detective finally turned around in his chair, facing him. He didn't waste time, in case he changed his mind, and straddled him.

                'Of course.'

                He found it difficult to stop himself from sighing in relief as his lips finally met Sherlock's. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he has, in fact, missed this. And it's only been a few days since he last saw him.

                Jim sometimes wondered what it was, between him and the detective. Surely, anyone looking at them now would say that they are in love. But Jim Moriarty could not love, could he? Love was a feeling, an emotion, and he did not feel. He could not feel. Sherlock could, perhaps. After all, the thing that he had with the ordinary doctor was definitely some sort of emotion, some kind of platonic love. It didn't mean that he could love Jim though. Jim was a murderer, a criminal, he was evil to the core. Wasn't he? He was empty. And Sherlock, he was on the side of the angels. He would not fall for him, in any sense of the word.

                He was certain, that to Sherlock, this was some sort of experiment. But what was it to him?

                Thankfully, these kinds of dwellings always dissipated by the electric shock that coursed through Jim's brain, as Sherlock's  tongue slid against his own, making him gasp. He always cursed himself that he responded in such a cliché, ordinary way. That he was so affected by such a mediocre gesture. Yet he allowed himself to fall into the familiar, pleasant dance of tongues, and lips, as they kissed there, in the kitchen, a perfect illusion of something romantic.

                They would probably spend the rest of the evening (or night) exchanging some minor details about their current jobs and cases, Sherlock would perhaps fill him in more on the current experiment or some of his recent ones. Or perhaps Jim would continue to fill the void that was Sherlock's knowledge of astronomy with some more essential facts and formulas. Or maybe, they would decide on watching crappy telly and criticising it together, then fall asleep on the couch.

                That's how it always was, and both consultants were content with things looking like this. They didn't feel the need to take things further. Sex was not something they sought after; they fed on each other's intelligence, and it was enough for both.

                _At least, it used to be_. Jim's enthusiastic kisses faltered, as he felt, what could only be Sherlock's erection against his thigh.

                He jumped off of him as if he got burnt, realising too late how suspicious it must have seemed. He tried to pitifully cover it up.

                'So, what, you just stick these teeth in the beakers, day after day? That's so dull, Sherlock.'

                'Oh please, I have enough of complaining from John already about it being _gross_.' Sherlock said as he stood up. Jim noticed the way the detective's voice got deeper than it usually was, and stealing a quick glance at his face, he found what he expected; his pupils were dilated and the pale skin of his face had some more colour to it. Definitely aroused. There was of course that furrowed brow, that confused expression; Jim could not have hoped that his strange behaviour went unnoticed, really.

                However, Sherlock made no comment to it, and advanced Jim again, pulling him into a more needy, almost aggressive kiss. The criminal's knees went a little weak at that, and everything was Sherlock again.

                His mind vaguely registered his legs moving, his back momentarily hitting into something flat and solid. His eyes flew open as he soon felt himself going horizontal, falling on his back and felt softness underneath him.

                They weren't in the living room anymore. From what he could see around Sherlock's head, it was Sherlock's bedroom. He noted the periodic table on his wall.

                How did he not even notice that Sherlock led him here, laid him on his bed and was currently unbuttoning his shirt? (Where did his tie go?) How lost was he? He was completely out of his depth and off balance. _Fuck_.

                 Sherlock was going to find out that the whole 'flirtatious Mr. Sex' facade was nothing more than a bluff and he'd only end up embarrassing himself.

                It took him all of his willpower to gently push at Sherlock's shoulders, but firmly enough to get him to stop.

                'Sherlock, no, wait.' God, he couldn't look at him. How would he even explain that?

                'What is it? 'Daddy' anxious of doing it with the virgin?' Sherlock grinned but he must have seen something in Moriarty's expression that turned him serious, made him realise Jim wasn't playing. Did Jim see some feeling of hurt in the detectives eyes? Did he think he didn't want to do it particularly with _him_? Or was it... concern? That one was more difficult to believe, Sherlock wouldn't worry about him, would he? 'What is it, Jim?'

                It's not that he didn't want to. He often wondered, how it would feel to have the detective so close, the one person who was just like him. But at the same time, he didn't want it enough to risk everything they've built so far, whatever it was.

                'It's... It's complicated.' Sherlock frowned at that.

                'Complicated? Stellar or extragalactic astrophysics- that might be complicated, but sexual intercourse between two men is not complicated. The mechanics are really not much different - shouldn't you know this?'

                'Sherlock...'                                                                                                   

                'Surely, some positions might not be comfortable or possible, comparing to heterosexual intercourse, and there's the need for external source of lubrication, but all in all, it's pretty much-'

                'Sherlock, will you stop! You don't need to tell me how this works, alright? That's not what I meant!'

                'Then tell me, because I don't quite follow. Or is it because it's _me_?'

                'No, NO, Sherlock, I... this is just-', he gave up and sighed.

                'How odd of you to be lost for words.'

                'Oh, honey, I'm full of surprises and you know it.', he pathetically tried to keep up with his typical playful demeanour.

                'No, this is _something_... What is it that you don't want to tell me? What's bothering you?' The care and concern in Sherlock's voice were, for some reason, anything but soothing. 'Tell me what's wrong, Jim.'

                'Don't give me this pity and concern garbage, Sher-'.

_Fuck._

                'Pity and concern.' Sherlock's voice was low and calm as he repeated the words. Fuck, how did he _ever_ manage to slip like that? A few heavy moments of silence hung in the air. 'What are you hiding, Jim?'

                He might as well know. It's not like he's going to leave the matter be, now, anyway.

                The criminal pushed at the detective's shoulders again, so that he would stand up and let him stand too. For the first time, Jim felt intimidated by Sherlock's larger form. He was such a complete mess today, he should not be making such a decision, but to hell with it.

                'I didn't want you to know. So that you'd think less of me.' _Less than you already do -_ the ending hung in the air and he got the impression that Sherlock knew exactly what he had in mind.

                Keeping his movements calm and methodical, he finished unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock has not uttered another word, and Jim would have thought he entered his mind palace, if it wasn't for the intense stare with which he was observing the criminal.

                As he slowly put the shirt on the nightstand, his mind raced. His hands faltered at the fly of his trousers. He felt adrenaline rush through him to the point of dizziness. He felt so ordinary. He could not control what he felt. This lack of control made everything even worse. Feeling of self-loathing and disgust crawled along his spine for yet another reason.

                Jim's hands felt as if they were made from lead as he unzipped his trousers. His stomach surged as the material slid down his thighs, but otherwise, he felt nothing. He felt empty, he was laid bare. What he did, he could not take back.

                For the first few moments (that could just as well be hours) he could not lift up his eyes. When he did, Sherlock's gaze was as intense as he's ever seen it, studying every bit of Jim's skin, committing every single, self-made flaw to memory. What he didn't see though, was disgust. Maybe that part will come in a few seconds.

                The detective took a step towards him, and the criminal flinched at how deafening the sound of his shoes has sounded in his ears. Momentarily, he felt a jolt of panic as he expected Sherlock to strike him. The memory of his father doing so, all those years ago, when he found out his son was doing something so shameful as self-harming, came up in his mind. But he knew he was being ridiculous. Sherlock would not hit him.

_Would he?_

                After getting so lost in his thought, the other man's soft touch on his hip surprised him so much that it knocked the breath out of him.

                Sherlock slipped his index fingers underneath the band of Jim's underwear slowly. 'May I?'

                Out of all things he tried to predict, this was not one of them.  He didn't answer, and the other man took his lack of response for a permission. Jim himself wasn't sure if the detective made a right assumption, but he figured that he didn't care at this stage. He felt strangely drained. Sherlock was almost always right, anyway, wasn't he?

                While he was at it, Sherlock also untied Jim's shoes and the man stepped out of them and out of the trousers that pooled at his feet. He felt like he was on display, being completely naked while Sherlock was fully dressed. He felt completely vulnerable, a feeling so old that it seemed to belong to a different life. He felt like he was cut open on the table in Molly's morgue and left for Sherlock's dissection.

                He _felt_. He felt everything and it was _too much_.

                He vaguely registered Sherlock moving around him and sitting on the edge of the bed, and then being pulled into his lap, so that he was straddling him again. The fabric of his trousers felt strange against his bare buttocks. It was strange, however, that his nudity was not what making him so nervous.

                Jim felt ill with fear of what was about to come. The fact itself that he _feared_ was terrifying.

                Sherlock's expression was unreadable as he slowly reached for the other man's thighs, gently tracing his fingers across one of the pale scars. Jim could not stop himself, even though he watched Sherlock's hand approaching his skin. He grunted as if the touch caused him physical pain and shook so violently that the detective withdrew his hand. Jim grabbed his wrist, and brought it back where he was touching him.

                No one has ever touched his scars. A few people have seen them, but he would never let anyone touch them. His father had seen them, and he earned himself a heavy beating. The one 'boyfriend' he had had seen them (he wanted to find out what was so appealing about relationships to people) and called him a sick fuck. Tommy, was his name. They never spoke again, and Tommy never had a boyfriend again. Primarily because Jim ensured that his body was floating in the river before he got his degree. Moran had seen them, too, but knew better than to ask questions.

                Sherlock was different. Sherlock was always different, he was always the exception, to everything. Jim studied his face, as he studied the criminal's self-inflicted scars that covered the most of his thighs. He searched for anything that resembled repulsion, disgust, dismay. He couldn't find any trace of that. In a strange way, it unnerved him.

                Jim was glad for Sherlock's silence. Partially, because he was genuinely scared of what he would say. Nothing really seemed appropriate.

                The detective kept caressing the smooth raised skin, as if the scars were something to be cherished, rather than revolting evidences of his sickening weaknesses. Most of them were old and pale, barely visible, but there were a few that were still just slightly pink. He knew that Sherlock must have been able to tell the difference.

                'How old?' He asked, hovering his fingers over a particular scar. Jim marvelled at how composed Sherlock's voice was. Then again, he wasn't the one revealing his failures.

                'Over a year.' He only wanted to see if he remembered how it felt, as he hasn't done it in a long time. After years of this addiction in his teens, learned to control it, and give into other addictions. Like murder. So he was just curious. At least, that's what he would tell himself.

                'Do you want to... talk about it?' This time it was Sherlock who seemed completely out of his depth, trying to offer comfort.

                He scoffed humourlessly. 'Let me save some dignity.'

                'Alright. Jim.' Sherlock took a breath. The other man stopped his. 'You said, that whatever I would see, it would make me think less of you... Well, if it's about the size of your penis, I can't really blame you, it's not exactly your fault-'

                'Sherlock, you dick', despite himself, a laughter punched out of the criminal's throat, but the sound did give away the lump that formed there. The tension disappeared, just like that, lifting a massive weight off of Jim's shoulders, and the relief was so overwhelming that he felt dizzy once more. The detective smiled so brightly in response as if he's just received a brilliant case, instead of being insulted.

                'What I mean is that this, _this_ ,' he caressed Jim's thighs again, and this time, his shiver was only minute 'doesn't make you any less. Do you understand me, James Moriarty?'

                'You can say really touching things when you want to, you know that, Sherlock?' He tried to be teasing, to prevent this from becoming an utterly mushy moment, but he knew that Sherlock could read the gratitude in his eyes. 'So, you still want to...?' He twisted the top button of the detective's shirt between his fingers.

                'From what I recall, you were the only one having any reservations.'

                'Even with... this?'

                Sherlock sighed impatiently, grabbing a hold of the other man's hips and flipping them around so that he was, once again, above him on the bed. 'You're not listening to me, James.'

                Sherlock kissed him again, and it felt the same as it did when they were back in the kitchen. Nothing changed between them. The criminal started working on his shirt then, and he wanted nothing more but to rip it open, because his fingers were too slow. But it was Sherlock's marvellous purple shirt and he liked it way too much to destroy it like that.

                He grimaced as Sherlock broke the kiss to shrug the shirt off his shoulders and work on his pants. Jim marvelled at the flawless pale skin that has just been revealed to him. The twisted voice inside him wondered how stunning it would look, covered in scars and blood, but he pushed that thought aside, as if Sherlock could read his mind. He sat up and pulled down Sherlock's pants to his knees, then flipped them over so that now Sherlock was lying on his back. Returning the favour now, Jim untied and removed his shoes, followed by his jeans and underwear.

                Sherlock's body was perfect and lean; splendidly toned with just the right amount of muscle, making him neither too thin nor too bulky. His skin so pale and unblemished, completing the look of a marble statue. Heat started to bubble low in Jim's stomach.

                A skin-crawling feeling of inadequacy rolled over him. He felt lesser than him not only in a physical sense. The feeling of being ordinary that just wouldn't leave him tonight, comparing to the almost glowing figure in front of him, intensified. Sherlock was an angel, and he, a demon, a lesser creature, felt like he was committing the worst of crimes, corrupting the detective's presence with his own filthy one.

                'Kiss me, Jim.'

                This he could not resist, and before he knew it, he was kneeling over the detective, kissing him with all these newfound emotions he was feeling, hoping the movement of his tongue against the detective's would convey the messages he would not dare or even try to say out loud.

                The criminal grinned when his hand wrapped around Sherlock's length, making him gasp. He started stroking, perhaps a bit too slowly and lightly, but he couldn't help himself from teasing Sherlock a bit. Maybe it was the way his breathing changed, the sporadic frustrated grunts he gave out, or the way his chest heaved that fuelled the criminal.

                He had some mercy in him though, and gave a tighter squeeze. The detective hissed in response and was gripping the sheets as Jim covered his chest in light kisses, travelling lower. He kissed Sherlock's hips, and smiled as a shiver went through the larger man's body. Ticklish. He proceeded to kiss his thighs, the beautiful, unscarred skin, so different from his, covered in all sorts of ugly lines. He could spend the entire night, marvelling at the beauty, but he knew that this was not where Sherlock wanted him to be.

                Taking a breath, he swallowed Sherlock's entire length in one go, making him growl his name and arch his back, gasping. Jim hasn't really been in a real and intimate relationship with anyone since years, but every now and again, he and Sebastian would jerk or suck each other off without even getting properly undressed, often simply from sheer boredom.

                As he began to move his lips in a steady rhythm along Sherlock's shaft, he dimly wondered how long has it been since someone touched Sherlock like that. A jolt of jealousy pierced through him as he thought about Sherlock's silly doctor. Were they shagging on a regular basis? Jim couldn't hold that against the detective though, and he knew it. He knew it would always be John, he'd always be first. He knew it, but he would never be able to live with it. It still made his insides twist.

                'Okay, Jim, Jim. Jim, enough', the criminal pulled back and Sherlock sat up. Jim devoured the sight of him, with blushed cheeks and droplets of sweat on his neck and forehead. _He_ did this to him, and he barely managed to bite back a moan at the thought.

                They rolled on the bed, switching positions once more. Sherlock's blown pupils disappeared momentarily out of his sight when he reached over to one of the nightstand and pulled out a small bottle of lube. He didn't take a condom; they had  conversation a couple of weeks ago, about their health conditions (which started with Jim complaining that the detective doesn't eat enough) because there was nothing good (as always) on the telly and Jim ran out of riddles. It turned out they both have been tested recently enough and both were clean.

                Jim's stomach twisted in anticipation. Sherlock's movements seemed to reach him in slow motion, as he watched him squirting some of the clear gel onto his fingers. The detective spread his legs and guided him to bend them for easier access, and knelt between them. Jim felt a jolt of panic as he thought the detective would try to push in without stretching him first.

                He thanked his lucky star (if he even had one) that Sherlock was not clueless in sex to that extent, as he felt a single finger slip inside of him. It still left the criminal gasping; it's been so long since anyone touched him like this, that he forgot how intense it felt.

                'Are you alright?', Sherlock asked in that low murmur of his. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded in reply. 'Relax.' Jim wasn't sure whether Sherlock whispered, or whether the blood pumping in his ears drowned out his voice.

                As the detective slowly started to move his finger, he caressed the criminal's chest and abdomen with his other hand, helping him to calm his breathing. Now and again, he would give a single stroke to his shaft, which threw all the progress in terms of breathing out the window, but Jim couldn't complain. He tensed up as Sherlock pushed in another finger.

                It took him a few moments, but he managed to relax his clenching muscles, so that Sherlock could move both digits inside him without the burn being too great.

                'Breathe, Jim.'

                Breathing, that's right, that could be useful. It surely did take some of the light-headedness away. The stretch slowly began to feel quite pleasant.

                'Jim, I'm going to add one more. You ready?' he spoke softly as he gave Jim a few strokes, but without pulling away this time. He didn't add the finger until Jim nodded.       

                The third finger brought a burn that was anything but pleasant. Jim could not stop a pained groan and the finger was immediately gone. His embarrassment had no measure.

                'Sorry.'

                'It's alright. That was too soon.'

                Sherlock continued to stretch him with two fingers, keeping up the same rhythm with the hand that was on Jim's shaft. Arousal was slowly spreading over Jim's body, making him feel warm all over. His eyelids dropped slightly, so for a moment he didn't know where the white-hot pleasure that made him spasm came from; it took him a moment to realise that Sherlock has just found his prostate, in the same time as he took the head of his length into his mouth.

                This felt so entirely different than what he did with Sebastian. With Moran, it was cold and methodical, neither of them really interested in sex, simply wanting some distraction or ways to unwind and relieve some tension. And though Jim swore to himself that he would never _feel_ again, all those years ago, he couldn't help but enjoy the way Sherlock took him apart with such care and attention.

                'We'll try again, alright? Tell me if it hurts.' Jim nodded.

                _Tell me if it hurts._ He didn't want him to hurt, he wanted him to feel good. He cared about how he felt. Sure, it was nothing. It was just sex. Nevertheless, he didn't remember a time when someone cared about him.

                It caused a strange sensation to rise in his chest.

                'Is this good?'

                Jim realised that he didn't even notice his body being stretched further by Sherlock's third finger because of dwellings on his emotions. He focused on the physical sensations.

                'Yeah. Yeah that's good.'

                For a while that seemed like eternity, Sherlock's hands fell into a slow rhythm inside him and on his shaft once more, stroking his prostate irregularly. He loved how Sherlock slowly lit him on fire, building up the pleasure gradually, instead of burning him at once and in a rush. It made his mind pleasantly foggy and unfocused.

                He was brought back to the present when he suddenly felt empty as Sherlock withdrew his fingers. The sound of the plastic bottle opening and gel squirting echoed in the room again. Jim took a deep breath as he heard the wet noise of Sherlock spreading lube on his own shaft. His heart skipped a beat and rose right up to his throat as Sherlock lined himself up and Jim felt the tip of him at his entrance.

                Finally, Sherlock started to push in slowly. It was hard to relax, but Jim was doing his best to focus on his breathing. Thanks to the thorough preparation, the stretch was barely painful, and it soon became only a dull sensation is the background as pleasure gradually took over.

                Sherlock stayed motionless for another few moments, letting Jim adjust to his size and the sensation of him stretching his body. It was a considerate gesture, but it did nothing to ease the strange lump forming in Jim's throat.

                His initial thrusts were incredibly slow. Not that Jim minded. It wasn't only the fact that it's been so long since the last time someone penetrated him. Mainly, he didn't want it to end too quickly.

                Time passed, and the pace of Sherlock's thrusts was still the same. Then realization dawned on the criminal.

                Sherlock was not going to be rough. He was not going to _fuck_ him. This was not just sex. This wasn't a means to an orgasmic end for its own sake. Sherlock was making love to him.

                Jim suddenly felt more bare and exposed than he had during the entire evening. Right then, Jim Moriarty wanted to hide. The realization was so clear, took all the mist and fog away from his mind, and all that was left was pure, clear emotion. He felt like an exposed nerve. He felt everything. Sherlock crept inside of him, perhaps more in the metaphorical sense than physical. He crept into his soul, or what was left of it, and opened all the doors of his cold, blackened heart, letting rivers of feelings flow out after years of being locked away.

                Jim was scared he was going to drown.

                His chest heaved, as if water was filling his lungs. Without thinking, he grabbed Sherlock's hand that was wrapped around his thigh and pulled the detective close to him.

                'Closer.' He was not very surprised at how desperate he sounded.

                The detective balanced himself by supporting himself on his hands on both sides of Jim's head. They were so close that their chests touched, but it was not nearly enough for the smaller man. The position was putting some strain on his body, but he pushed the discomfort aside, ignoring it. He was drowning, and Sherlock was the only bit of dry land in sight. He brought his arms around the detective's back and pulled him even closer, as Sherlock continued the slow motion of his hips. Jim wrapped his legs around them, driving him even deeper, eliciting a low grunt from the detective. He knew that this was as close as he could possibly get, and it frustrated him to no end. He wanted to tear Sherlock's skin, rip his ribcage apart and crawl inside, just to get closer. At the same time, he wanted to be ripped  apart himself. He wanted to devour Sherlock, and he wanted to be devoured. He wanted something, anything, to quieten down the raging storm of emotions inside of him.

                With disgust he realised his vision was going blurry. He wasn't going to cry during sex, was he?

                _You pathetic fuck, who does that? Get yourself together. You're such a baby._ Tommy's voice was so clear in his head as if he didn't hear those words years ago, but only yesterday. He dug his fingers into Sherlock's flesh hard enough to make the other man hiss, but he didn't pull away, neither did he stop thrusting. Inflicting pain didn't bring the criminal any relief.

                'Hurt me, Sherlock. Hurt me.' The words were out before he could stop them. He hated himself for sounding close to tears. _Such a fucking disgusting weakling_.

                Sherlock's rhythm faltered until he stopped, without pulling out. He looked at the criminal, and what Jim mostly saw was confusion. This time, he _hoped_ he would slap him. He knew pain, after all. He's always known it. It was his comfort zone. It would help him to deal with the emotions, if Sherlock would just-

                'James Moriarty', Sherlock said in a serious tone as he entwined their hands and stretched their arms together to the sides. 'I'

                A kiss on Jim's sternum.

                 'Will'

                A kiss on his left shoulder.

                 'Not'

                And on his right.

                 'Hurt you.'

                A final kiss was placed on his neck.

                Jim was fuming. He just needed pain, he _deserved_ it, he always did, why wouldn't Sherlock just give it to him? It would be so much easier; he didn't need affection, he didn't need kisses.

                But that was all that he was currently getting. Keeping Jim's hands firmly pinned to the bed, he covered the smaller man's skin in kisses as much as the current position allowed him. The string of curses directed at him and Jim's trashing, trying to get him off, didn't seem to faze him in the slightest.

                It looked like this could have gone for ages, but Jim finally realised that Sherlock was not going to stop. It seemed to him that with these gentle caresses, he reached for the final door in his heart, one of those he guarded the most. Never in his life did he allow himself to be actually loved, but it seemed that Sherlock was going to change that too, like he changed everything. As he opened the metaphorical door, Jim felt as if black ooze was flowing out through it; his self-loathing, his craving for pain, his suffering that turned him into the monster he saw everyday in the mirror. He felt calmer now, every kiss slowing his breathing down until it was normal. The black ooze seeped out of him and onto Sherlock's bed, and he almost wanted to apologize, before realizing it was all in his head.

                Jim opened his eyes that he didn't even notice he closed in the first place. He saw Sherlock's curls, his head bowed as he kept planting those gentle kisses. Jim rejected them and cursed the detective at first, yet he was still there. Despite everything that Jim was, he was still there.

                'Sherlock,' his voice was nothing more than a whisper. 'I'm sorry.'

                The man stopped, lifted his head and planted one final chaste kiss on the criminal's lips.

                'Do you want to stop?' Sherlock's voice was soft and quiet too, his eyes delicate and understanding. Everything seemed to calm down. The storm inside the criminal too.

                'No. No, just. Just be close.' He was aware how pathetic he sounded, again, but at this stage, after revealing so much of his weaknesses, he really couldn't find it in himself to care.

                Sherlock released Jim's hands and he wrapped them around the larger man's back once more. They fell into the same rhythm again, with Sherlock moving slowly inside of him, their bodies impossibly close. This time, there was no need on Jim's side to hurt his lover, or to get Sherlock to hurt him. The storming emotions turned into clear, quiet waters that swayed gently in his heart with Sherlock's thrusts. Every now and again, Sherlock would place a kiss on Jim's ear, and the criminal would welcome it. For once, everything seemed to be in place.

                Jim knew Sherlock was reaching his climax as his movements became more irregular and his breathing beside Jim's ear more erratic. He gasped as Sherlock started stroking him, and he felt himself growing fully erect again. Sherlock was speeding up his movements, making it difficult for Jim to breathe. He threw his head back as the detective hit his prostate, mouth open in a silent scream. The friction and heat felt too good. That's when Sherlock's hips slowed down in favour of aiming at Jim's prostate and filling him completely with each thrust. The room was filled with their heavy breathing, panting, gasps and groans, the slick, wet sounds of Sherlock pushing inside of Jim and stroking him at the same time. The smell of sex hung in the air. Jim was right there with Sherlock, on the edge.

                'Sher... Sherlock, soon-', he tried to get some words out in between his gasps.

                'Let go, Jim.'

                Sherlock's voice, low from arousal, right in his ear, was the last push he needed to topple over. Pleasure took over him and made his muscles twitch, leaving him panting Sherlock's name. Apparently, the last push that the detective needed was Jim's muscles clenching around him, and he finally came, groaning the criminal's name. Both men panted as they rode out their high together.

                 Their breathings gradually returned to normal, as they felt fatigue wash over them. Jim felt Sherlock pull out of him and he hissed quietly at the friction. He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't make them shower now.

                Jim felt his (practically) newfound heart breaking in half as he saw Sherlock stand up without even a word. He would now tell him to get up, get dressed and leave. How could he ever be so naive.

                The relief he felt when Sherlock came back with a towel and sat back on the bed was so great that Jim could have wept. The detective brought the soft fabric between Jim's legs. He could feel Sherlock's come flowing out of him slowly. It was a strange sensation. Having wiped there, Sherlock brought the other side of the damp towel to Jim's chest and wiped him off there as well.

                The criminal guessed that the detective was just as tired as he was; he wasn't even bothered to put the towel in a laundry basket, he threw it on the ground and crawled back into bed with the criminal, pulling the covers around them.

                Jim felt content, at least for this moment.

                He put his head on Sherlock's chest, and couldn't resist placing one last kiss on his skin.

                They didn't talk. There was no need to talk.

                The rise and fall of the detective's chest soon slowed down, and Jim took it as a sign that he fell asleep or was just about to. His mind was sluggish and slow as well, but there were thoughts that didn't let him shut his mind completely and fall asleep.

                One night could not fix everything. In the morning, he would put up the walls around his heart again, lock the doors and new black ooze would gather. He would put on his cynical and cold mask back in place, and they'd never talk about what happened that night. This evening was a temporary release from the darkness of his mind, from his self-loathing and twisted nature. Sherlock was a light that guided him and led him through his soul and showed him his own heart, showed him that it still existed, made him realise that it could be opened. But Jim knew that Sherlock was the only one human who was capable of this. This was the very reason why this was their first and last time. They could not be allowed to continue. They were two opposites; raging fire and coursing river. They were not meant to be. All of this, their entire story, could not have another ending.

                They met in the battlefield, in a game, and they would part in the same way. The game would have one winner. One survivor. Sherlock would always have John, the ordinary Watson who was somehow more than enough for him. No one would be enough ever again for Moriarty and Moriarty would never be enough for anyone. He would never be what John was to Sherlock. He has already lost.

                For a second, he thought that maybe he could make them even. No winner. They would both lose. He scoffed at the thought. Whatever game, whatever plan Jim would come up with, Sherlock would always find a way out to go back to John. He had people who would support him, because they cared for him. That was alright. The more he thought about it, he realised Sherlock didn't deserve to go down with him. Sherlock wouldn't even _want_ to. He deserved a great game, one last game with Jim that would set his mind alight but one that would leave him a winner. Jim would make sure of that.

                'Never let me hurt you.' He whispered into the still air in the room, knowing he wouldn't be heard by the other man, deep in his sleep.

_I'll wait for you on the other side._

                Feeling the walls building back inside him and tucking his feelings away, Moriarty allowed himself to fall asleep in the detective's presence for the last time.

               

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so here we go, this is the first work I'm publishing here. I hope it's not too bad, and that it's not too OOC. I just have a lot of Jim feels lately (aka always). Anyway, thank you to anyone who's read it.


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